


Seeking Isolfr

by ofunaq



Category: Iskryne Series - Elizabeth Bear & Sarah Monette
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28265547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofunaq/pseuds/ofunaq
Summary: What really happened between Vethulf and Skjaldwulf, while Isolfr was away mustering a svartalf army?
Relationships: Skjaldwulf/Vethulf (Iskryne Series)
Kudos: 7
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2020





	Seeking Isolfr

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atreic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atreic/gifts).



Another day, and still Isolfr had not returned. Even with Viradechtis still there, the entire Franganfordthreat was restless. Tempers were frayed, and without their wolfsprechend to patch things up, men and wolves alike were constantly at one another’s throats.

Worse yet, Vigdis had disappeared, and her absence was like a gaping hole in the pack-sense. Since the death of Hrolleif, she had been a shadow of her former self, and Skjaldwulf remembered the tales of wolves driven mad at the loss of their brother. Grimolfr and Skald were beside themselves, and patrols were sent out in every direction in the hopes of catching her scent, but each returned empty-handed, footsore and disconsolate.

/\|/\

In the drafty chill of the wolfheall, Skjaldwulf and Vethulf were at loggerheads yet again, the same argument as before: Isolfr had gone north, and they were torn between their duty to hold Franganford together, and wanting to go after Isolfr and bring him back.

“He’s not a pup any longer. Besides, he has Kari and Frithulf and their brothers with him. And Viradechtis is pregnant, in case you’ve forgotten.” This time Vethulf was arguing for staying.

“Viradechtis is a konigenwolf, and can look after herself perfectly well, in case _you’ve_ forgotten. Winter is coming. If we don’t go now, it’ll be too late,” Skjaldwulf persisted.

In the end, it was Viradechtis herself who decided it. With an exasperated sense of _silly puppies_ , she met their eyes, and the scent of ice-cold water over rounded stones was in the pack-sense, a feeling of stones under claws and the sparkle of fish in the water, and it became clear how Isolfr and Vigdis had masked their scent in the river as they journeyed north. No lies between wolves.

/\|/\

It was already too late to catch up with Isolfr, but they could at least try. With Mar and Kjaran ranging alongside in a complicated and endless play-fight, Skjaldwulf and Vethulf trudged up the river for hour after hour.

“I should have said more. You should have done something. We could have stopped him together,” said Vethulf.

“It would have made no difference. Whatever he is doing, it is Othinn’s will,” Skjaldwulf answered, without breaking his stride.

“Why must you always take his side? It’s as if I’m not there to Isolfr. He doesn’t even see me.” lamented Vethulf.

Another long silence, as they picked their way up the river valley.

“Really, he never notices me, whatever I do. He tolerates me only for Viradechtis’ sake. I tried to be gentle. I used the salve to prepare him, and I gave him what pleasure I could. And yet he cannot meet my eye. Am I so undesirable? Or so unskilled?”

“No, not undesirable. Believe me.” There was a catch in Skjaldwulf’s voice, and he looked away.

“Sometimes, I feel that I don’t understand him at all. How can I make him see me? I’d do anything to get through to him.”

“I think you’d have to be Isolfr, to understand how Isolfr sees things. I don’t think that I can explain. Not in words alone.” Skjaldwulf hesitated. “But perhaps I can show you a glimpse. If you really want to know. We may need more salve.”

/\|/\

Early that the afternoon, Mar and Kjaran picked up the scent, and raced back smugly. Scuffed moss and the shell of a duck-egg marked where Isolfr had rested, together with Kari and Frithulf and their brothers. Mar and Kjaran led them along the trail, through stunted pine, for hour after hour. As the shadows lengthened, Mar bayed excitedly, and Kjaran took up the call: they had found Vigdis’ scent. And a little further on, a makeshift campsite showed where the three wolves and three young men had spent their first night.

/\|/\

At last, they gave up the hunt, and returned to Bravoll and the Franganfordthreat, with a mixture of relief that Vigdis was safely in good company, and concern for Isolfr.

In the bathhouse, Skjaldwulf asked cautiously, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” Vethulf, stripped to his breechclout was scattering water on the rocks to make steam.

“Do you really want to know, what it’s like to be Isolfr?”

“Can you show me?” Vethulf sounded hopeful.

“It won’t be the same. I sometimes think Isolfr is deeper in the pack-sense than most of the wolves, in a place we cannot go. But perhaps this will help. I can’t promise you’ll like it, though. To be treated as a trophy, wanted in ways you cannot reciprocate? A mere foil to Viradechtis’ desires?”

“He’s worth it.” Vethulf was resolute.

“Then finish off here, and come to bed with me.”

/\|/\

“Take off your clothes. Lie down, and let me tell you a story.” Skjaldwulf sat on the corner of their bed, clad only in trews and a belt, a wolfish glint in his eye. Technically, two beds, lashed together for Viradechtis’ sake.

Nervously, Vethulf stripped down, self-conscious in ways he thought he’d left behind when he joined the wolfheall. Face-down in the furs of the bed, a shiver passed up his spine as he felt Skjaldwulf kneel before him, and Skjaldwulf’s hands, rough and scarred, come down over his forearms. A gentle kiss, on the top of his head. A rumble of words, as Skjaldwulf began the tale. A story of two wolfjarls, and their devotion to their shared wolfsprechend. But what were they to each other, when he was gone? Skjaldwulf’s hands relaxed their grip, traced a path up his arms, down his flanks, and circled his back, as if the poetry of the words could be mirrored on Vethulf’s body. He stretched Vethulf’s arms out to the corners of the bed.

The story continued. A wolfsprechend tied so closely to his wolf, that he would lose himself in the pack-sense, beyond the wit of men. A bond tighter than any rope. Skjaldwulf passed a rope around Vethulf’s left wrist, and tied it securely to the corner of the bed. Tight as a snare, but not quite painful. Traced a fingertip up Vethulf’s left arm, across his back, and down the other side. A knot for the other wrist. Another gentle kiss on the top of Vethulf’s head.

A wolfjarl, a lover of men, soft as snow. Skjaldwulf’s hands passed over Vethulf’s back, glanced across his buttocks, down the backs of his thighs. Rough and cool, like frozen snow, against Vethulf’s building heat. Then back up the inner thighs, spreading them a little, one hand cupping his stones, the other snaking up past the first and grasping his sex. Vethulf sighed as Skjaldwulf’s skilful hands began to move. And gasped as he felt Skjaldwulf’s tongue, slick and soft, teasing his opening.

A wolfsprechend who would do anything for his wolf. Vethulf keened in frustration, as Skjaldwulf withdrew his hands and shifted his position. Bear any pain. Skjaldwulf removed his belt, and placed the leather carefully between Vethulf’s teeth. Accept the scorn of his family. Vethulf felt his knees being pushed up under him, presenting him for Skjaldwulf to use as he pleased. He moaned into the belt, begging wordlessly to be touched again.

Another wolfjarl, with a temper hot as fire, his bluster hiding his deepest needs. Skjaldwulf’s fingers, slick with salve, pressed into him. There was nothing now left in Vethulf but the burning need, as they filled him, touched him inside in ways for which he had no words. Time and space dropped away, and there was only the tang of the leather, the fur against his face, and the burning fire kindled within him.

The fingers pulled out, and he moaned in frustration. Skjaldwulf shifted his position, one rough hand gripping Vethulf’s hip. Vethulf pressed back shamelessly, desperate for more, begging without words for Skjaldwulf to thrust into him.

Was this how Isolfr felt? The burning, the desperate want, in a world of scents and fur, of snow and fire? The humiliation, to be trussed up for others’ pleasure, to be used like a piece of meat, a prize in the affairs of wolves? And then to be cosseted by shamefaced wolfjarls, unable or unwilling to treat him as an equal?

And then Skjaldwulf thrust forward, and Vethulf pressed back, welcoming the pleasure and pain that washed over him. He no longer knew where his body ended and Skjaldwulf’s began – there was only desire and need and striving. He was Vethulf and he was Skjaldwulf and he was Isolfr, all at the same time, as the pack-sense unfurled before him, and when Skjaldwulf slammed into him for the last time, he felt Skjaldwulf’s climax as his own.

/\|/\

Time passed. Someone was covering him with furs. Gentle fingers prised open his mouth, and the leather belt was gone. The ropes at his wrists were being untied, and when they were gone, he felt almost bereft. Hands were positioning him, placing him on his side, curled up in a ball. Kjaran was there, licking his face. He was sobbing, and Skjaldwulf was holding him, the gentle murmur of his words a lifeline, leading him back to the world.

Some time later, Mar and Viradechtis joined them, grinning. _Silly puppies_. No lies between wolves.


End file.
